


bulletpoint lives

by klanced



Series: stars once wrote a song about us [1]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: "Timmy loves playing with balls" Is Incredibly Unfortunate Wording - The Fic, Do Ghosts Know They're Dead? the ongoing saga, Gen, aka the ghost shenanigans that happen in the background of every Buzzfeed Unsolved episode, but they have it even worse because they're ghosts, ghosts face like 100000x more existentialism than humans do, it's not an oc if it's a real ghost okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 10:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12318909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klanced/pseuds/klanced
Summary: "They call him Timmy.They say lots of things about him and never to him, but it always boils down to the same stuff: his name is Timmy, he’s a little boy, and his favorite toy is a blue rubber ball. He knows that the last thing is true, so everything else they say must be true, too. He tells himself his name is Timmy, and after a while it even starts to feel right. If he could see his own reflection, he thinks he’d look like a Timmy. And that’s okay. There are worse things than being a Timmy."----What happens behind the scenes, where even Ryan and Shane can't see.AKA the fic where Timmy from Waverly Hills Hospital is real and he smoked me on the bball court.





	bulletpoint lives

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:  
> -Some casual ableist language (st****) because the narrator is a little kid from the like 1950s.  
> -Casual mention of tuberculosis symptoms (non-graphic and only a sentence or so long).  
> -Implication of child death but it happens before the fic and is never explicitly addressed. We all know Timmy is dead, he doesn't really.

They call him Timmy.

They whisper it to each other as they creep down the hall- _There’s a ghost down here, of a little boy. His name is Timmy and he likes to play with balls._ Sometimes they snicker at the last sentence. He doesn’t understand why they do that, but he’s gotten used to not knowing much of anything and the laughter rolls off his shoulders. It’s fine. They never stay for long, anyway, and they laugh even less. Which is good. He likes it when they leave him alone. But he also misses them when they’re gone, because they’re the ones who remind him he’s here.

They say lots of things about him and never _to_ him, but it always boils down to the same stuff: his name is Timmy, he’s a little boy, and his favorite toy is a blue rubber ball. He knows that the last thing is true, so everything else they say must be true, too. He tells himself his name is Timmy, and after a while it even starts to feel right. If he could see his own reflection, he thinks he’d look like a Timmy. And that’s okay. There are worse things than being a Timmy.

They chatter around him, and he wishes he could stomp his foot even as he cowers at the thought of attention. _Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!,_ is what he imagines he’d say if he were bigger and braver and they could hear him. _My name is Timmy. And I am_ not _a little boy because little boys are_ babies _and I am not a_ baby, _I’m Timmy!_ He thinks that that’s something a big boy named Timmy would say, and he practices it whenever he has free time because he has lots of free time. Sometimes he wonders if there’s something else he should be doing, but if it was that important he would know, right? He would know. But he doesn’t, so he doesn’t.

When he remembers to think about it, he wishes he could _remember._ He wishes he knew more than three bullet points about himself. They always ask him questions, the same questions, like they can’t hear him choking on answers that aren’t ever there. How old are you, Timmy? Why are you here? Are you here with us? Timmy, are you there?

 _I don’t know,_ he thinks he’d say, if he were bigger and braver and they could hear him. He wishes he could answer their questions, because maybe then they’d answer his. Not that he knows what to ask, but he knows he should ask something. He wishes he could remember what. He wishes for a lot of things even though he’s supposed to be a big boy, but he thinks that his Mommy would understand if she were-

His head hurts, and he lets himself go away until it doesn't.

Sometimes there are days where he feels sad, which are usually after days where he tries to think really, really hard about things. There’s probably a _something_ somewhere in there, but he can’t figure out a what or why so he lets it drop. He has a lot of free time, but not that much free time.

There's a lot of things he doesn't know. At first, it used to scare him and make him feel small, but nothing bad has ever happened to him so he's decided that everything is a-okay. Maybe this is normal for all little boys named Timmy. There's a woman who wanders nearby, but she always ignores him and he assumes that that’s normal, too. He leaves her be.

Someone once told him that children ought to be seen and not heard. Which is funny, because he’s pretty sure they can’t see _or_ hear him, and yet they never seem to leave him alone. He’s learned to tune them out, to make them background noises and figures that haunt his favorite hallways. It’d be funny how they shout down empty shadows if it weren’t so annoying. What are they looking for, anyway? What do they want from him?

Timmy, do you want to play with us? they ask, and he perks up every time because _finally,_ a question he can actually answer. 

And so it goes.

There are new theys every time he notices them. They usually blend into each other, a parade of busybodies who are too loud and take up too much space and make him uncomfortably aware of something he doesn’t understand. He hates them. He needs them. Sometimes they play with him, and then he feels happy. They always leave, in the end. He tries to hate them for that, but he's never been good at keeping grudges. He also can't blame them; if he knew how to leave, he would.

Two men show up one day, and he initially ignores them as they explore the property and building outside his hallways and scream a lot. The last group who visited were mean and stupid and ran away when he tried to play with them, which was mean and stupid and _rude,_ so he’s decided he’s going to be rude to everyone else from now on because tough break. The lady who wanders near him tries to scold him, but she her mouth disappears when she tries to talk so it’s easy to ignore her as well.

And it’s not like these two men are _special._ There’s nothing incredibly important or interesting about them, other than how unbelievably loud they are. They scream and laugh and the noise drives him into his corner, hunching down in the shadows where it feels safe. He tenses once he hears footsteps entire his hallway, and readies his best glare (which is _not_ the same as pouting, by the by). But then they laugh, and he pauses. 

He's used to talking. He's used to people shouting his name at shadows that are in the completely different room. He's even used to the screaming and the running. But no one ever _laughs_ , like there’s nowhere else they’d rather be. Maybe it’s the company? They must be friends. He wonders, as he watches the two of them set up their weird toys and chatting all the while, if they're best friends. They seem comfortable around each other in a way that feels familiar. Almost like...

Oh. He used to have a best friend, he thinks. And for once the details come unbidden. A littler boy, who would come over and play jacks. They would run races and he would win, because he was bigger and faster and stronger, even as his lungs burned and he coughed into his sleeve like his mama taught him. He’d been so proud of his manners when he’d told her, and then he unfolded his arm to hug her and she had _screamed._

The taller man nearly drops something, and his fumbling reminds Timmy where he is. His head hurts like a word he isn't supposed to know, and everything about him feels heavier, but he’s so excited he thinks he could explode. He had a _friend_. A friend who is faceless and nameless but remembered all the same. They used to play jacks and ran races, until he started coughing and then they didn’t. He had a mama, too, he realizes. She taught him manners. And she loves him, he knows she does, knows it like he knows his name is Timmy. He bets she’s beautiful. 

He pauses to count something out on his fingers. He double checks his math, hands shaking from excitement.

 _I know five things about myself!_ Timmy shouts, holding up five fingers like it’s the answer to everything in the world. He hops a couple of times, then laughs and does a little twirl before he can stop himself. His cheeks burn as he chances a glance at the two men still in the room, but they're still busy doing whatever it is people come here to do, and Timmy relaxes his shoulders. The two strangers seem too caught up in each other to notice Timmy yet, which he’s used to. One of them seems to be hyping himself up about something, while the other switches between encouraging his friend and making fun of him. Timmy can't help but giggle, and lets himself bounce on his toes a little before he forces himself to be a Big Boy.

 _Thank you,_ he tells them, right as they start talking to empty air. He subtly moves in front of them and pretends he didn't see their mistake.

The shorter man introduces himself as Ryan and his friend as Shane. He pulls out a ball, a blue ball, and Timmy decides he likes these guys even more. They have excellent taste in balls. He does wonder what has Ryan looking so scared, though. There aren’t any monsters; at least, not in Timmy’s hallway. 

Ryan bounces the ball again and says something, not that Timmy’s listening. He knows how this game goes, and for once he decides to play along. It’s the polite thing to do, after-all. Ryan has already acknowledged him by name; it’s Timmy’s turn to do so, though in a slightly different way. So when Ryan tosses the ball down his hallway, Timmy chases after it and bounces it over to where a different, less-nice Ryan had left a present. He hopes this will make his new friends happy; most people have stormed out of his hallway in the past disappointed or even mad when he decided not to play, which he still maintains is mean and rude behavior. 

He carefully positions the ball so that it's sitting underneath the name _Ryan_ before stepping back to admire his handiwork. At the opposite end of the hallway, his new friends are discussing how he made the ball bounce a few extra times, and Timmy can't help but grin at the confusion in their voices. This is the most fun he's had in _ages_ , and he's practically wiggling in excitement as he waits for Ryan to discover his 'gift.' He hopes the older man understands his message.

He tries to not feel offended when Ryan starts screaming.

**Author's Note:**

> Ayyyyy what's popping. I love Buzzfeed Unsolved but I love Niche Fanfic even more so I decided to be the change I wanted to see in the world.
> 
> On a side note, I've always believed in ghosts but Waverly Hills Hospital is literally THE MOST validating video I've ever seen like h o w can you explain Ryan and the ball. Coincidence my ASS. Ghosts Are Real And Timmy Smoked My Ass On The Bball Court.
> 
> I'd like to write a series exploring the ghosts of (almost) every episode of Buzzfeed Unsolved: Supernatural just because it's a neat idea/concept. Also I would love to one day develop a theory of ghosts so rocking that even Shane will be like "well... damn" before he shoots it down. I can only dream.
> 
> I'm at karlcat.tumblr.com or KatieConfirmed on twitter so pop on by if you'd like.  
> Thank you for reading my fic!!


End file.
